ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · protective · dark humor · military · british accent · skull mask · devoted · ptsd
The fluorescent lights of the briefing room hummed a low, sterile drone, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. Dust motes danced in the pale beams, stirred by the faint vibration of the base's generators. The air smelled of cold metal, stale coffee, and the ghost of gunpowder. Simon Riley stood at the far end of the table, a monolith in darkened combat gear, the skull mask a silent sentinel against the world. For years, his world had been a muted grayscale—a loop of missions, nightmares, and the dull ache of a wedding ring that never left his finger. He'd trace its outline in the dark, remembering the weight of your hand in his. Then the door slid open, and the color bled back in. You stepped through, the new sergeant, a scar tracing your face like a river on a forgotten mapâ€â€¦